


trespass

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>loss of innocence prompt, originally from tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may be opposed  
> but i will be the instigator  
> trying hard to steal a kiss  
> from your lips tonight  
> everybody knows where you go for bad behavior  
> now i've got my arms around you  
> heaven is divine

It was almost an expectation to be summoned to his room; the servants at the Gates of the Moon all spoke of Lord Baelish’s devoted daughter, spending her evenings helping her father with the business of the Vale.

It was true; should any person make the error of disturbing them late in the evening they would not find anything amiss. Alayne occupied her time with Lord Baelish by learning; he was all too pleased to educate her on the matters of his domain. They discussed history; he would weave her long tales of the blunders and successes of rulers past. He told her news of lands beyond the Vale, although he would never linger long on Cersei Lannister, for her benefit. Sometimes he would try to fool her, earning a proud smile if she discovered his trick. In that way, he often did seem like a father to her. Not the proud wolf who had once called Sansa Stark his daughter, but a clever bird instead.

She knew she must be careful, however; her volitant guardian possessed a blood-slick beak and sharp talons. Blue eyes bore witness to it more than once, and surely would again.

Sometimes if the fire burned low and she would begin to shiver he would pull her near; onto his lap or merely seated next to him. He would glide his hands up and down her arms and shoulders or give her a kiss, something kind to bring the heat back to her face.

She wondered sometimes, if he let the fire die on purpose.

On one late night, much later than was usual, she was called to him. Dressed for sleep, she pulled a robe tightly around herself and followed the empty hallway leading to his quarters. A soft rapping on wood and she was invited in, closing the heavy door behind her.

He glanced up from his desk, an eyebrow raised at her shift and robe. “Alayne, I am sorry to pull you from your sleep, but I have news.” The man lifted to standing, beckoning her to come closer. He appeared ready to retire as well; his gold tunic loose around him and his goblet nearly empty. “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

“Leaving?” Her chest tightened. “Where?” She stumbled on the words, worry gnawing inside. She felt isolated during his absences. She felt false; an impostor parading around as a Stone. Only Petyr’s presence validated her pretense; only he knew her secret.

“King’s Landing. There are matters that need attending to.” His tone was not unkind, but left no room for argument. And bastards did not argue, anyway.

“How long will you be gone?” The capital was terribly far away, what if something went wrong in the Vale?

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He brought her closer, one hand raising to cup the side of her face. “You must be my eyes and ears here while I’m gone. Will you do this for me, sweetling?”

She nodded, azure eyes making contact with his. His gaze was soft; it was not the uncompromising stare that Littlefinger wore during the long days sending ravens and meeting lesser lords. She would, despite her distrust of him, miss the expression he wore in that moment.

“Now then,” his mouth moved closer to hers, and she knew what would happen next; they would often end their evenings with a kiss. “Will you give your father a fond memory for his travels?”

Alayne was all too familiar with the dance. Her lips parted slightly as they met his. Slightly calloused fingers threaded into her hair while his other hand found her ribcage, holding her in place. Her mouth was a tentative slide against his own, cautious and pliable, as he led the dance.

And the dance continued, longer than the girl was used to. He guided her closer, until the silky tunic he wore brushed against her robe. And still the kiss did not break; he might pull back for a slow breath or move to her cheek, but he would soon return to their embrace. His thumb began a gentle oscillation at her side, grazing back and forth just below her breast.

Eventually the motions became more comfortable; she enjoyed the lingering mint when her lips parted enough for a taste. She didn’t notice his hand slipping under her robe until it was too late; the shift was the only barrier between his hand and her skin. And his thumb continued to move, infinitesimally gaining upward ground.

Did she want him to touch her there? Almost unconsciously, her body shifted to allow him a better angle, although her arms stayed at her sides; she was not sure what she should do with him. His mouth responded with a faint smile as the digit in question continued to evade its goal.

The room felt warmer; had the fire truly been so low? Perhaps not, considering how heavy and constricting her robe felt. So preoccupied with her thoughts, it was a shock when his thumb, at last, brushed her nipple through the shift. She stifled a whine as the man teased her there, content to lightly caress her while their mouths remained connected.

And then his thumb was gone. Her mouth stilled, uncertain, before she realised what was happening. His fingers slithered under the now loosened shift, and skin against skin he found her again. She was bare against his hand, her hardened nipple no longer dulled by the barrier of her garment. She gasped into his mouth at the feeling, and he took the opportunity to dip his tongue into the entrance. It was wet and warm and the mint was tasted anew. The muscle retreated and advanced further, daring her to do the same, showing her how to do the same.

She was clumsy at first, trying to reconcile his machinations at her breast while coordinating his mouth and hers. When she gained enough confidence to allow her tongue to drift between his waiting lips, she was oddly pleased to earn a throaty moan from the man as his hands moved to the joining of her covering garment.

He broke away then, as the robe fell to the ground. A kiss to her cheek, and then her jaw, open and slow. “You taste…” His words were a murmur against the pale flesh of her neck, and she could not be sure if they were meant for her ears, or if he even knew he spoke him. “I wonder if all of you tastes this good.” His eyes were grey when they met hers, as if all the colour had been drained from them. They almost looked mean then, mean or something else. But Alayne was certain that Petyr would not hurt her, and so when he pulled her near again she did not protest.

The mockingbird had sharp talons, yes, but they were not meant for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in his hands  
> tremble, tremble at the taste of  
> oh what a violent game, stole but i still remain  
> man, be my enemy, oh but he knows my needs

Down to sitting he led her, only breaking their connection long enough to seat himself next to where she settled. How had he moved them away from the desk without her realising it? It must have been slow; a lazy set of steps imperceptible to the girl overwhelmed by the new sensations.

She did notice, however, his hand resting on her leg instead of her chest as his mouth returned to claim hers. His fingers were tugging, pulling her long shift up away from her ankles. Surely he wouldn’t expose her, she told herself as embarrassment nearly overtook the pulsing heat building in her cheeks and below her abdomen. And it was almost as if he heard her then, halting his hand as soon as her shift bunched at her knees.

It was slow again, digits grazing her outer thigh where the fabric remained clustered. His tongue continued the idle coast against her own. And just as she found herself content she was pressed backward, guided by her warden, spine meeting the soft mattress beneath her. It was an odd notion that came to her head; he was a man with such a sharp tongue, a man whose words could cut stone. She felt none of that now; his lips were deceptively soft, and even his roaming fingers did not claw or draw blood.

She had ideas of what might come next, but Petyr was still clothed, breeches secured and his tunic still loose around him. There was no need to be concerned then; she knew a man must be nude in order to take a woman. And he would not take her; _she was to be saved_ , saved for her marriage, saved for her next husband. She decided that she must wait, patiently, for lucidity to overtake his hungry eyes. Reason would surely find him, eventually.

The cool air on her bare legs was beginning to make her shiver, a concern soon remedied by the man moving to rest next to her, his hand threading into the ties at her chest. One of his knees settled between her legs, parting them, and he was covering her, his body a burning press. But even though the heat from him radiated, he was controlled, calm and reassuring atop her, kissing her cheek, her jaw, and down to her neck and collar.

 _Gods_ , his mouth was lower at the next joining, capturing a nipple between his lips. The bristling of his beard on her sensitive skin only magnified her pulsing; she squirmed against his tongue when it pressed the pink centre. His hand gripped her hip, attempting to still her writhing. When she calmed, his fingers moved, sliding painfully slow toward her inner thigh. _What was he doing?_ She looked down to him, still attending to her breast, with confusion, with fear and lust mingled in a terrible battle. She wanted something. She was certain the man knew what he was doing to her, how he was making her feel.

The mattress found itself claimed by a harsh fist when he lightly teased the spot between her legs. Yes, _yes_ , this was what she wanted. A whine, uncontrolled, expelled from her as the man felt, as he explored. There was a smile against her chest, a victorious smirk, she was certain; but she did not care, not as his fingers forced her hips upward, seeking more pressure. And there was something growing, something overtaking her reason; her body reacted on its own, searching and searching.

He pulled his hand away then, and his head moved downward, pulling her shift up to her stomach. There was a kiss to her thigh as he parted her legs further, and she could only watch; she was burning, wanting.

And still, the man was clothed, even as his mouth crept toward the place his digits had first discovered. It didn’t take him long to find it; his tongue darting out to taste the throbbing place. The girl could not stop a moan; her knuckles were white while the opposite hand reached for his shoulder. She should be touching him, shouldn’t she? It felt as if it would be the right thing to do, and so she complied. One of his own hands grasped her leg, keeping it still as she resumed her motions, establishing a clumsy rhythm against his tongue.

 _Oh_ , and she was close to _something_ , something new and surely extraordinary. And he must have known by her frantic pace, her gasping whines, because he retreated again, moving back up to take her mouth.The kiss was different. It was open and raw and mutual. It was uninhibited; he was just as unreserved as she was, threading his hand roughly into her dyed hair, tugging her nearer. Her legs were still parted, and he moved himself between them, pressing his chest against hers, leaving no space.

And then there was something there, something larger than fingers, something warm near her core. He was sliding against her, below where he had teased moments before, near where a dampness had started. It was flesh and it was firm, and yes, she knew what it was. When had he unlaced his breeches? While his mouth was between her legs?

His hand was guiding it closer to her core, until he rested at her entrance. He wouldn’t, _he couldn’t_. There was too much to lose, too much at stake.

 _But he did_ ; and her world shattered for long seconds; she was drowning, she was falling, she was still burning. “Breathe, Sansa.” A muttering into her ear; his voice was foggy and far away. She’d forgotten to breathe altogether; her lungs full of air as her body remained rigid. But she obeyed, even then, exhaling, forcing herself to relax.

She looked up to him, and he was watching, waiting for her to regain her senses. Was it a kindness, the waiting? Tears threatened as he pressed inward, deeper into her still throbbing core. Was it supposed to feel this way? Surely it shouldn’t hurt, otherwise why would anyone do it? The wetness that had pooled in her helped, but the man did not seem to fit.

But as the man retreated and pressed in anew there was a spark, a nerve struck. She wanted to chase that spark, that light in the darkness. Her hips bucked upward in search of that fleeting second. A troubled mind began to let go as she succumbed to a more primal instinct; she wanted to find that feeling again.

He must have realised the change; a low groan sounded as he felt her meeting him in his rhythm. And his movements shifted as well, deeper and more punctuated thrusts reigned; dictated by the whines expelled from the girl’s mouth. And how different it was then. The pain settled, a backdrop for the growing desperation of release. She wasn’t sure what it meant, what her goal was, but as her breath grew shallow and her mouth fell agape in pleading, her body told her she was close.

And then, a great crashing. Her entire form tensed; nerves alight from toe to temple, all singing in unison, joining between her legs. She held the man atop her so tightly then, so perilously that she almost forgot herself. But he was still moving, and as she began to recover he continued, a harsher set of thrusts than before. The pace was brutal; _what was happening?_ Against her the man was lost, focused on his own path, his mouth open and warm on her neck. But then he stilled with his own moan, keeping himself unmoving inside of her.

A new heat pooled there, and she knew it was not her own. A man’s seed, spilling inside of her.

_A man’s seed. Oh no._

Worry racked her, pushing aside any lingering pleasure. After a few slow presses the man left her, a stinging pain as he pulled his softening form out of her centre. And that fluid slipped out as well, trailing between her legs and onto the bed. It cooled, an uncomfortable mess around her.

He rested on his side, leading her to him again, wrapping his arms around her and leaving a kiss at her temple. Silence and silence between recovering bodies. There were questions she felt she must ask, but she found herself unable to form the words.

Eventually, she tried: “Was that-“ _was that my maidenhead, gone before I knew it had been taken?_

And of course he knew what she was asking. He was quiet for a moment, seemingly preoccupied with his own rumination. “Yes, sweetling.”

The shaking started then; a light trembling starting at her arms and ending beyond her knees. Wide eyes looked up to him in fear of the consequences.

"Petyr." Her mouth quivered, and she found no comfort in his eyes. "What have we done?"


End file.
